


gold switch blade

by onekingdomonce



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Assassin Laurent, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, M/M, Off Screen Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekingdomonce/pseuds/onekingdomonce
Summary: The throne was never something that Laurent coveted after, nor were the physical reins of power. He much preferred to rule using his mind. It was why Laurent spent so many of his formative years sharpening it to the best of his ability, honing it into a blade that could best be used to Vere’s advantage, like a dagger hidden in his brother’s sleeve.That was what Laurent had become known for, what everyone in the court knew to look at him as. The scholarly prince, the withdrawn brother who always had his head in the books and his feet off the sawdust. What had started out as mildly irritating had soon become increasingly advantageous, for it ensured that no one would ever suspect what Laurent may have been hiding in his own sleeve.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 138





	gold switch blade

**Author's Note:**

> i went through an assassins phase a while back and got really intrigued by this verse where laurent is the second son and naturally the overlooked spare, but was secretly also an assassin who went after all of auguste's potential threats and kept his brother's crown safe. there would also be banquets and suspicious foreign guests and flirting and plot and drama! and then i lost interest!  
> i decided to post what i have so far bc it beats having it waste away in my documents. please let me know if it's something that interests you, i'll be much more inclined to get back into it if i thought anyone cared lol  
> also, this is very very under edited and not nearly as fleshed out as it could be, and i wrote it quite some time ago and i believe it shows. i dropped it before i even began to edit it, so keep that in mind bc im aware its a mess and im fragile about it 🥴

If there was anything that Laurent’s mother had taught him, it was to always keep the most beneficial parts of yourself hidden.

It wasn’t a conscious teaching, necessarily. Laurent had spent most of his developmental years at his mother’s side before the plague had taken her, sitting by her sickbed with a book or having the servants bring them tea while she lounged in her solar. He’d always admired her, had always observed the way she acted around others closely. If there was one thing Laurent had taken from her, even as a boy, it was that there was an endless amount of depth to her that she wasn’t letting the world see. For whatever reason, the late Queen had lived a life where she had kept much of her truth hidden, locking it away like a secret. As a second son born in the shadow of a golden prince, Laurent thought he understood.

The throne was never something that Laurent coveted after, nor were the physical reins of power. He much preferred to rule using his mind. It was why Laurent spent so many of his formative years sharpening it to the best of his ability, honing it into a blade that could best be used to Vere’s advantage, like a dagger hidden in his brother’s sleeve.

That was what Laurent had become known for, what everyone in the court knew to look at him as. The scholarly prince, the withdrawn brother who always had his head in the books and his feet off the sawdust. What had started out as mildly irritating had soon become increasingly advantageous, for it ensured that no one would ever suspect what Laurent may have been hiding in his own sleeve.

It sometimes seemed to Laurent as if Auguste had the entire world at his fingertips, as if he could accomplish any amount of success just by willing it. And while that was mainly true, there was one thing that Auguste lacked, one thing that was fundamentally out of his realm of virtue that made certain tasks impossible; Auguste tended to view the world in absolutes. He possessed a heart and mind that separated ally and foe, and he struggled to conceptualize that the two could be one and the same. This dissuaded him from both recognizing duplicity in others, and from utilizing the act himself.

Lucky for his kingdom, his crown and his life, Laurent had a highly developed instinct for deception.

Laurent could recount a multitude of different occasions, an inconsistent string of men and women who had come to the court under a facade. Festivals, Banquets, even one wedding where a young man from Arran had come to Arles under the pretense of officiating the marriage between Councilor Jeurre’s nephew and a woman from one of the highest-ranking tribes in Vask. That instance had been a bit of a gamble, Laurent had to admit, but it had ended with a successful wedding, the King’s head intact and Laurent’s hands only slightly bloodied. 

It wasn’t always their fault. There had been a few tragic attempts at fallacy, that much was true, but there were times where it was just the simplest misstep that gave them away. An inconsistency in a backstory, a glance given to the wrong person, the basic slip of not taking into account who might be lurking in the shadowed passageways, listening.

The same principles applied for matters outside of the high walls and pointed towers. Laurent had enough carefully selected ears and eyes scattered around the northern provinces, and even one or two fostering outside of Vere, watching and reporting. 

The stolen missives, the nights snuck away from the palace in disguise, the weapons stowed away and hidden on different parts of his body, all depending on what the mission required. They were all a part of the game; one that Laurent never had any intention of losing. He remembered his most recent trip to the village, the face of the short, bulky man when he’d entered the room and found Laurent waiting for him in bed. It had only taken Lazar one trip to the brothel and three gold coins to the Maitresse to supply that his most recent mark preferred blondes. Laurent still had the blue dress hanging in his closet to remind him of the night. 

The number of causalities were still finite enough that they could be counted on two hands, but the quantity of the matter didn’t make each time stand out in Laurent’s head any less. Each transgression stuck out to him like a pin on a strategy board, another reminder to never let his guard down. Not if Laurent wanted to keep everything that mattered safe.

***

Laurent knew when he was near wit’s end.

It was the fourth meeting of the day, no more trying than the first three but no less important. Laurent sat with his back to the window, hours having passed since he’d last looked out onto the courtyard. Had it not been for the servants entering the room to light the candles lining the wall, he might have thought that it was only midday. 

“Your Highness,” Lady Vannes said, calling Laurent’s attention from the parchment she had placed in front of him. He’d read the memo a handful of times after sitting with his legs crossed and listening to Vannes drawn on about multiple different counts of proof that she and Laurent both knew really wasn’t much proof at all. 

“You’re well aware that this,” Laurent lowered his hand from his chin to the table, “is not enough.” 

“If I may,” she said. “It’s more than the last time.”

“And yet, I’m still underwhelmed.”

Laurent observed the cinch of her neckline; tantalizingly low without being immodest, the cuts of her clothing different from most of the layered skirts he saw flouncing around the common areas. He eyed the delicate gold bangles that framed both of her wrists. 

“I could send that newest Pet of yours on a trip to Skarva,” Laurent suggested. “I hear the mountains are lovely in the springtime.” 

She regarded him with a similar arch of her dark brow. “I don’t think our answer is in Vask, Your Highness.”

Laurent pushed away from the table. “Do better.”

***

By the time Laurent had been ten years old, he’d become fascinated by Auguste’s chambers. They were imbedded with enough of Auguste’s personal tastes that presented his own preferences, giving it the originality that made them stand out from the other splendorous rooms that the palace had to offer. They were grand, unique, it’s high walls and extravagant patterns fit for a King, and Laurent wanted to be nowhere else. If he wasn’t in the stables or scourging the library, he was pulling up a chair by Auguste’s desk, or sitting on one of his couches while they ate sweet fruits and discussed his day at court with father.

As time went on, Laurent found himself there less often. His responsibilities had grown, as had his awareness of how Auguste would realistically need time without his little brother around, but that hadn’t stopped him from occasionally frequenting his rooms like they were his own.

“What do you think of this one?” Auguste asked that afternoon, lifting another one of his jackets to his chest. The collar on that one reached higher, though the laces were more minimal. The silver spanned around the wrists in a design rather something to undo. It was far less fun to stump people with.

Laurent shifted his legs, bringing his palms to his sides and lifting his weight up so he was sitting on the edge of the desk. The papers rustled beneath him. “Do you not have people for these kinds of questions?” Laurent had three since he was old enough to dress himself.

“You know no one else will give me their honest opinion.”

“The first one,” Laurent said. “With the detailing in the hem.”

Auguste picked the garment off his mattress, running a thumb along the thread. Laurent watched as he turned so he was facing the mirror, holding it up in a similar pose.

“Should I be concerned over how you’re dressing up for your meetings today?” Laurent asked.

He saw the way Auguste looked at him as he lifted his head enough to catch his eye in the mirror, the line of his mouth straight. Laurent smiled.

“The sentiment will be futile,” Laurent continued, swinging his left leg backwards and forwards. “Berenger likes redheads.”

He stilled, abandoning their eye contact in the reflection so he could turn to Laurent’s side of the room. Laurent leaned his weight back, his right leg joining the left. 

“On second thought,” Laurent added, tilting his head. “That jacket may be too intricate for his tastes.”

Auguste placed the bundle of clothing back on the bedding. Laurent knew him well enough to know when he was about to really give it to his younger brother. It almost resembled the look he gave disappointing highborn or courtiers, except that unlike them, Laurent could roll his eyes at the crown prince.

“This is not the time, Laurent,” he said. His hands had moved to his hips. “I have a full day of meetings with him; he cannot be preoccupied with your -“ the sentence went unfinished.

“Unfortunately,” Laurent placed the quill he was toying with back on the desk. “I don’t have the luxury of creating a schedule with these things.” He pushed himself off the desk, the heel of his boots loud against the tiled floor as they made contact. He would need to change them before he left. “But you have no cause to worry, it’s not Berenger’s company I require.”

Auguste sighed. “Laurent.” 

Laurent was halfway to the door. He had a busy day ahead of him, and he had spent as much time as he could dawdling. He placed a hand on the doorframe, looking over his shoulder. “Let Berenger know that if I don’t find the time to speak to him today, I’ll see him at next week’s banquet.”

The guards closed the doors behind him to a silent corridor. Laurent walked with his hands crossed behind his back, his mind racing through everything the duration of the day would require. It was a checklist that seemed to only grow, no matter how many things were ticked off. He would bathe first. He needed to speak with Orlant, and he had to be sure that the stable boy would have his horse saddled and ready in time. He knew he should eat something, but he could have a servant bring something to his rooms while he looked over the letters waiting on his desk. 

“There you are.”

Laurent paused. The voice had come from his left, a trill that rang out in the empty hall. He recognized that carefully placed drone well. 

“Hello, Nicaise.” He turned. “Were you looking for me?”

It wasn’t unusual to find Nicaise roaming the palace, though it was a penchant Laurent knew he liked kept hidden. Laurent had caught him near the training grounds, and sometimes on the outskirts of the throne room. Once, before a banquet, Laurent had seen him sneaking out of the palace with too budging sleeves.

In hindsight, it wasn’t that long ago that Laurent had been in the same situation, young and directionless, bored without trying to show it. It certainly felt like it was, though. 

Nicaise looked the same as he always did. His hair had not yet been cut, the locks falling into one of his eyes. 

“No,” Nicaise said, when he’d made it to Laurent’s side. His lip curled, that was just as familiar as the rest of his appearance. “I just haven’t seen you.”

“I’ve been busy.” Laurent continued to walk.

Nicaise remained at his left. They passed one servant and two doors; Laurent estimated it would be one more before he spoke first. His eyes followed one of the patterns trailing the wall as they moved, multicolored hues that swirled together and created different images, depending on the way one looked at it. If Laurent squinted, he might see an outline of flowers.

“I saw your newest guard,” Nicaise said. He took the stairs quickly, maintaining one step ahead of Laurent. “He looks like a horse.” 

Laurent raised an idle brow. “Have you been around them recently to make that comparison?”

“No.” Nicaise frowned. “They’re big. And they smell like shit.”

“That would be the stables.” 

“I don’t like them.” 

They came to the top of the stairs. Laurent’s chambers were down the right hall, he needed at least half an hour to look things over before his next meeting. 

“I can have someone teach you,” he said, glancing down at Nicaise. His father had died in battle, and his mother was busy as the physician’s aid. With a sick mother and a brother training for kingship, Laurent had known what it was like to feel desolate and neglected. “You can start with a pony like I did. It can be -“ He considered his words. “Freeing.”

Nicaise didn’t like that suggestion. He knew he wouldn’t before he had offered, but most things with Nicaise were a hazard.

“I don’t care about horses,” he said. His hands were crossed against his chest, it synched the material of the tunic under his fingers. “And I can get around on my own.”

“Then what did you want, exactly?” 

Nicaise raised his chin. “I saw Ancel in the garden with his master. I know why they’re here.”

“To discuss bartering routes through Arles and Varenne with the King,” Laurent nodded. “I didn’t know you’d taken an interest in politics.”

“I’m smaller,” Nicaise said. “And quieter. All Ancel does is attract attention.”

Laurent resisted the urge to close his eyes and tilt his head back. He also resisted the urge to smile, because Nicaise was becoming more transparent by the day, the harder he tried to be the opposite.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, leaving him on the carpeted stairwell as he made for his rooms.

***

Laurent knew that Veretian style was excessive. He’d thought so when he was a toddler, his nursemaids chasing him around with the clothing that he’d refused to wear, too many steps for his patience and liking. He saw the way people reacted when they arrived to court, eyeing the laces and layers like it made minimal sense. He could attest to it, he supposed, but fashion aside, the various pockets and folds held other practical benefits.

In Laurent’s left breast pocket were three thin daggers, all molded to the curve of his fingers to be tossed in succession like darts to a target board. The press of metal was cool against the sensitive skin of his ankle, as were his tightly bound wrists. He felt the press of rope against his flank.

The waiting was half of it, the drumbeat of his heart and the way his breathe hitched with every creak of the tavern’s old floorboard. If he hadn’t emptied a drop or four from the vial he had brought with him into the pitcher of wine on the table, he might have taken a sip to calm his nerves. 

A voice sounded in the next room over, a throaty laugh, the recurring sound of heels. Laurent’s vision vacillated as the fire flickered in the hearth, the glow of words on the paper in front of him coming and going. He ran a thumb along the emblem from Varenne on the top right corner, down the list of inventory that the man was expecting to negotiate over. He shook his head at the words with a smile. Trade consultations, always so beneficiary. 

The door opened. Laurent looked up, crossing his arms behind his back. The keeper inclined his head, reaching for the door handle.

Laurent’s smile grew. “Hello.”

***

Another benefit of being a second son: it was less common for people to notice Laurent’s comings and goings. That advantage had been put to good use when Laurent had been young, sneaking in and out of feasts and celebrations when his interests had been exhausted, often retiring to his chambers early to the privacy of solitude. Auguste had always been the only one to notice, or the only one who had bothered to voice his disagreements.

Not much had changed in that regard; that much was apparent from the way Auguste’s eyes followed Laurent’s approaching figure, all the while carrying on with his conversation.

“That was rude,” Laurent said, settling into his seat. “I’m sure Lady Celestia would have liked your full attention.” 

“I’ll make it up to her,” Auguste replied. Laurent grimaced into his goblet, just as Auguste leaned forward. “You’re late.”

He was. It wasn’t late enough to cause actually worry, but there was little that went over Auguste’s head when it came to Laurent, excluding all rational talks of logic. It was deep enough into the dinner that most of the seats were occupied, the hall thick with body heat and liquor enhanced conversation. Berenger was in his usual spot by the balcony, Ancel draped over his arm in his usual manner. Laurent held his eye, lifting his drink to his lips.

“Laurent,” Auguste said.

Laurent turned to him. His face - youthful and clear – was a series of folded lines, each one etched in a typical form of distress that he needed to rid of immediately. The food on his plate seemed long forgotten, every visible inch of Laurent’s body seeming to be his only form of concentration.

Laurent’s silence was purposeful, though not through some intended desire to be irritating. He simply saw no reason to have a repeated conversation, which was why Auguste leaned in closer.

“Do you want to end up like father?” he asked, low.

Laurent pushed his fork into his venison. It penetrated easier than the evening’s earlier endeavors. 

“Allyless?”

“Dead,” Auguste said.

“Did someone tell you I was hunting sanglier before I came?” Laurent asked. “Because if so, their intel is unreliable.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Auguste said, his head tilted in towards Laurent’s. It was good that the two of them were known for their close relationship, it would otherwise raise quite a few questions to see the King and Prince huddling together, whispering throughout the duration of a public meal.

“No,” Laurent agreed. “It is about as humorless as the colorful plot I extracted out of your would-be murderer tonight.”

“I am a King,” Auguste said, remarks of his near death garnering less of a rise out of him than Laurent being out of the palace slightly longer than intended. “I am going to have enemies.”

“I am a Prince,” Laurent replied, motioning to a servant with two fingers. “And I am going to have their heads.”

***

Laurent went riding that afternoon alone. The air was warm, the humidity low, and it was the perfect day to clear his head and enjoy the cloudless blue sky before the frenzy of the upcoming festivities, the banquet only a week away. It was thrown every year, the palace coordinators putting their all into arranging a celebration to bring in the springtime that was so excessive that only Veretians could take a look around and deem it appropriate for the arrival of a season that came round every year.

Laurent enjoyed it, the same way he enjoyed spring. Winter in Vere was a sight to behold and one that he didn’t mind, but the transition of the blistering cold to the blooming flowers and perfumed scent in the air always gave him a feeling of optimism. He listened to the carrying sounds of children’s laughter as he rode, knowing the opportunity to take respite in the flurry of the trees and riding tracks was numbered in days. Once the guests would arrive, he would simply not have the time.

The list had been varying. Apart form the majority of the capital there were groupings from each Veretian province, and each nobleman was typically inclined to bring their own cortege. A few distant cousins from their mother’s side still living in Kempt, one living in an estate in Ladehors, all other family unidentifiable. Their ambassadors had done well with the southern and eastern kingdoms, much to Auguste’s pleasure and Laurent’s skepticism. 

“The Vaskian empress?” Laurent had said, looking up from the list doubtfully. “She rarely leaves Skarva.”

“That is why she’s sending her daughter,” Auguste corrected. He didn’t look up from whatever it was he was jotting down. “Perhaps she’ll bring one of her leopards, you’d always wanted to meet them.” 

Laurent wasn’t amused. “Patras?”

“Torveld’s is coming in Torgier’s stead,” Auguste said. “Though I believe he may be brining one of his nephews.” 

The last thing Laurent needed in a palace full of chaos and prospects was to avoid Torveld’s thinly veiled advances. He set the papers down on the table. “Akielos?” 

“The King is coming,” Auguste had said. “As is his half brother. They have included their retinue in the letter, you can check the one with the red signet for details.” He pointed to the mess of letters on his desk with the end of his quill. He was teasing Laurent.

Auguste’s first trip to Vask had been when he was young; all it took was a little bit of wine for him to regale Laurent with stories about his memorable visit to the Imperial Palace and its bordering tribes. They both had their own association with Patran representation, but all affiliations with Akielos were minimal to none.

Laurent leaned forward. “You don’t know him.” 

“I’ll get to know him,” Auguste said. “I’ll have to. This is how alliances are formed. Goodwill. An olive branch.”

Laurent’s mind was already picking the situation apart, considering what rooms were open and where they could be placed. Torveld was typically kept in the eastern wing, but that was closest to Laurent’s chambers and that placement should be reserved for someone Laurent hadn’t met multiple times. The Vaskians might do well in what used to be the Queen’s apartments -

“Laurent,” Auguste was saying. “Are you listening?”

“I’m thinking.”

Auguste set the inkwell down. “Please,” he said. “Just try and keep an open mind.”

Laurent blinked. 

“I know where your thoughts are,” Auguste continued. “I can see them moving behind your eyes, you’re practically selecting your armor.”

Laurent frowned. “I don’t wear armor,” he said. “That would be too obvious.”

“Laurent,” Auguste repeated, in a tone that sounded like _enough._ “I’ve been corresponding with Damianos. You haven’t. I’m none to pleased about having to welcome strangers from every stretch of distance into our home, I am well aware of the vulnerability, but we are just one kingdom. You know as well as I do that things have been precarious for a while now, I need to think strategically.” 

Laurent’s head was reeling. “Corresponding.” 

“He is a King,” Auguste said. “As I am. It is good that we meet.”

“Then invite him to a closed quartered meeting!” Laurent’s fingers were curled around the back of the chair. “Not to a party where the palace will be swarming like a rat infestation.” 

But Auguste had not budged, and Laurent reminded himself that there were worse qualities that his brother could have than a trusting heart. He’d left his chambers, stalked through the palace with jittery fingers, and made straight for the stables where his horse was waiting for him.

That was the problem with variety, Laurent thought as he dismounted on top of a hill and took in the view of the city, reins in his hand. There was so much to keep an eye on.

***

All day, the palace had been a bustle of activity.

The kitchens had rallied upon news of all the addition guests that would be joining them for the feast, ensuring that there was something provided in every one of the courses to pacify everyone. Five selections of wine from Barbin had been broken out in crates to be served with the entertainments, the best that their cellars had to offer. It was nearly as abundant as the feast held for Laurent’s fifteenth birthday. 

Their guests had arrived in trickles throughout the day. Laurent had trained early that morning before the sun had risen to eliminate as much of his daily routine as possible, and had been freshly washed and prepared to greet the Vaskians in the early hours, Lady Vannes at his side.

“I want you in her presence at all possible times,” Laurent had said to her as they walked, making for the entrance hall when a servant notified him that the wagons had pulled up. “This is their first time venturing into Vere, I want to know why.”

Aina of Vask was a tall woman, considerably taller than her companion. Her hair came down both shoulders and fell at her waist in a soft braid, her dark eyes lined in kohl. Her servant presented Laurent with a round jug of what she called Hakesh, and Laurent thanked her in Vaskian before handing it off to be brought to his rooms. 

“I will do my best to remain in her presence,” Vannes said, after, when the group had gone off to discuss one of the wall hangings. 

Laurent watched Vannes watch her painted fingers move as she spoke. “The woman with her is her lover.”

“They are not a monogamous kingdom, Your Highness,” she replied.

The previous border lord of Fortaine had died some years ago of heart failure, and his eldest son Perrin had taken over as Lord of the fort. He had sent his mother Loyse as representation as he tended to, and if he hadn’t mentioned in his letter that his youngest brother would be accompanying her, Laurent would have already known from the letter Aimeric had written Laurent himself.

“How was your journey, my lady?” Auguste asked.

“Pleasant, Your Majesty,” she said. She looked to Aimeric, who was looking at Auguste like he had materialized out of a dream. Laurent could understand that. It was a good thing that Aimeric’s admiration for Laurent stopped at respect and comradery; it was a lot easier to trust that reports and updates on the state of a province were not being sugarcoated when you weren’t the subject of their hero-worship. 

The Patrans came later in the day, after Laurent had taken a light lunch with Auguste in his sitting room before all of their meals became public. Berenger joined them for tea on the balcony afterwards, having arrived late the previous night and preferring to rest before meeting with his King and Prince. He alternated between Arles and Varenne, though he visited the capital frequently enough that he had a set of rooms that were reserved specifically for him, much to Ancel’s pleasure. Berenger was an uncomplicated man, deferential, and the atmosphere of his presence was light enough that Laurent felt jarred anew as he greeted Torveld of Patras. 

“The long journey to your kingdom is always made more pleasurable by thoughts of the warm destination,” he said, smiling brightly as he clasped Laurent’s hand in his. Auguste was deep in conversation with his nephew, as was right. He was higher in the line of succession than his uncle was; Torveld and Laurent were closer in rank.

Laurent waited for the fingers around his to unwind before pulling his hand away. “I’m relived as usual to hear that the ornamentation is not too gaudy for you.”

“The architecture is always breathtaking,” Torveld said. “And the least beautiful thing here.”

“Torveld,” Auguste said, clasping a hand on Torveld’s shoulder. “Last time you were here, you had said you wished to see the gardens in the spring.”

Laurent waited until the hall cleared out and he was alone before rubbing the spot between his brows with his fingers, exhaling. 

It was late afternoon when the Akielons came. Laurent had already been in Auguste’s room. His arms were braced on either side of his desk as he leaned over Auguste’s shoulder and listened to what he was telling him, nodding along to tariffs on exports as he traced a line from Arran to Sicyon. There had been a knock on the door, a servant who was doing remarkably well at hiding that he was breathless come to let His Majesty know that a stream of red banners and golden lions were coming into view. 

“Play nice,” Auguste told him, tightening the laces on his collar as they made a left turn through the western corridor, a shortcut to the entrance of the palace. “And be on your best behavior. Like you were with the others.”

“The others,” Laurent repeated. “I know precisely where Torveld is on the board, and I have eyes on the daughter of the Empire.”

Auguste lifted a shoulder. “Then have eyes on the King of Akielos.”

“Trust me,” Laurent placed a hand on the marble rail at his side. “I intent do.”

As it turned out, it was far less difficult for Laurent to keep his eyes on Damianos of Akielos than he thought it would be. 

In his defense, he didn’t seem to be given any option. The entirety of the Akielon retinue seemed to have a startling amount of skin on display, and the fact that most of that skin was splayed out in layers of muscle did not help matters. It was an unfortunate additive that Laurent was going to need to slightly crane his head back to maintain eye contact. 

Auguste had laughed the second they had come into view. A soft breath of amusement that was only for Laurent’s ears, and a nudge of his elbow into his side that Laurent would have returned had no one been around to see him shove the King into a wall.

Laurent looked at him flatly. Auguste was already grinning at him with a tilt of his head to the side. “Come,” he said, and so they went.

Relations between Vere and Akielos had always been tentative, never quite on the brink of war but never quite friends, the way a cat and a mouse might watch each other from separate corners of a neighborhood, circling the same streets. While still civil, Kempt had pulled out their funds and most of their services with the death of Laurent’s mother, and it had only been little over a year since the death of his father. While headstrong, Auguste was still new to kingship, and Laurent knew that he needed friends across the borders, that allies were not always just a bonus, but a necessity. He was pragmatic, a tactician, he knew what was required and what had to be done to achieve it. He was looking for that in Akielos.

Laurent didn’t like it. While it may have lacked substance, the notion didn’t sit right with him. He knew that Akielos had gartered a reputation of ruling by the sword, and looking at them, it wasn’t too difficult to conjure the image. With new sovereignty came new enemies, and Laurent would not allow Auguste’s crown to be squashed under anyone else’s foot. He would not be a mouse.

“Your Majesty,” Damianos said, coming to where Auguste and Laurent were standing together. He was taller than Laurent, taller than Auguste, and had the voice to match it. 

“Exalted.” Auguste accepted his hand, their palms pressing. 

There was an old game he and Auguste used to play when they’d visit the fortress at Acquitart, deep in the old ruins amongst run-down stone and crushed flower petals. _Kill all the Akielons_ Auguste would instruct him, stepping around crumbling archways with a sword in hand, Laurent eagerly following in kind. _And restore the old empire._ They would laugh, would try to best each other in their plays and then return back for dinner in high spirits, like they had just succeeded in something great. 

Auguste was young then, juvenile. The musings he had made about the apposing country when Laurent was an impressionable boy had long since dwindled, and Laurent often wondered if it was his opinion that had changed, or simply his presentation. He watched them face each other benignly in the brightly lit hall the way they might have on a battlefield.

Laurent offered his own hand. He lifted his eyes, speaking clearly. “Exalted.”

Damianos’ grasp comprised his. He felt it in the way his right hand shortly met the left so that they encompassed Laurent’s, in the way he held Laurent’s eyes as he said, “Your Highness.”

When he released him it was Laurent who stepped back, turning his gaze to the group standing behind him. Damianos turned with his body, inclining an arm.

“My brother Kastor,” he said, directing to an older looking man, his most distinguishing features being a thick beard and chin that was raised high for his status of first born with no throne behind him. Beside him, another man who had yet to look away from Laurent.

“Nikandros,” Damianos said, resting a hand on his shoulder. He was shorter but wider in bulk, with the same dark brows and olive tones. “Kyros of Delpha.”

There was a smatter of people who stood behind them, soldiers who wore similar scraps of fabric and swords on their belts, servants climbing out of wagons with trunks and parcels. Auguste greeted them all equally, turning to Damianos after with spread arms.

“Damianos,” he said. “If I recall correctly, I had promised you a tour of the training grounds in our most recent correspondence.” 

Damianos grinned. The white gleam of it seemed to stand out vibrantly against his skin, much like the cloth chiton that draped the middle of his thighs. He brought one hand behind Kastor’s back, another gesturing towards the palace walls in an aimless motion.

“Our journey has made us restless, eager for a go.” He nodded forward. “I’ve been looing forward to going a round.”

Auguste began to lead the way, the smile coming to him easily as they set their paces to match, long strides up towards wide steps. “You’ve only just arrived,” he said, twisting his neck to look at him. “I thought I might give you a night to recuperate comfortably before your back met the sawdust.”

Damianos laughed. It was a carrying sound, unabashed, even the Kyros’ unmoving lips curving in what threatened to be a smile. Laurent didn’t hear Kastor’s reply, but it brought on another round of laughter, another round of Laurent alternating his gaze between all of them. They were all close in age; it was not uncommon for a show of comradery in the arena, especially not with Auguste’s campaign for goodwill. 

Laurent didn’t always trust Auguste’s senses, but he trusted his preservation. No one lived to tell the tale of besting him, and Laurent knew of his capabilities of holding his own like he knew his own name. There was no one he couldn’t charm, no one he couldn’t foster some form of sentiment with, all while exuding the leadership that he had naturally displayed since birth. And Laurent would fall into the sidelines, able to observe and retain with no apprehensions of being seen in return. Laurent was going to be the last thing on Damianos’ mind.

***

The remainder of Laurent’s day was extensive, wearying in a way that he preferred. He’d ended up going a few rounds with Orlant in his personal training arena that only a select few were privy to, not having expected to exercise a second time but feeling like he had additional energy to exert. He had managed to get him on his back once more than he had Laurent, and he’d made his way back to the baths feeling like it had been worth it.

He had met with Aimeric next, entering his chambers to find him already there, siting in the main chamber and helping himself to the best cuts of fruit that had been left out for them. He told Laurent of the month’s comings and goings throughout the fort, providing a list of the prisoners who had been taken in and out of the underground cells since Laurent had last been south. Aimeric’s military knowledge was not as refined as the rest of him, but he answered questions and provided Laurent with as much as he could on the captain of the guard and the men he was training. For all of his polished beauty and aristocratic quality, Aimeric was rather skilled at going unseen. He retained knowledge well, and was good at molding himself to whatever a situation required of him. Laurent would be a fool to ignore those qualities. 

He had gone for a stroll in the gardens next, alone, the grounds already feeling claustrophobic from all the new and unfamiliar faces. It was something that would have to be remedied soon, the notion of such anonymity around him unacceptable. He thought of all the people he had met that day, all the distinctive presences and the varying impressions they had left on him. He closed his eyes, taking in a lungful of sweet spring air. He longed, temporarily, for the brisk air of winter.

Laurent finished the afternoon’s events with taking his usual reports from Ines, one of his younger servants who frequented the marketplace on the first day of each week. She told him of the stands, the vendors, the new nuts and candied fruits and accessories that were being offered, her voice skittish and her eyes low. He listened to what she was saying, absorbed what she _wasn’t_ saying, walking through the halls slow enough that she could match his pace as he made his way to his rooms to prepare for the night.

To a new set of eyes, a guest filled dinner in Arles might seem exorbitant. Over the top, the decadent place cards and fancily dressed pages implemented to impress and to present a certain image to whoever it was that was being welcomed. The reality was, however, that those affairs scarcely differed from a regular meal in the palace. There was perhaps one more course, a different song added into the earliest stages of the evening, but such embellishments were Laurent’s everyday experiences. 

He could see how their guests faired from across the hall, calmly observed from his seat at the high table. Torveld was a viveur, and had long ago become accustomed to the fruitful overindulgences of Vere, sampling dishes and toasting fine wine, young and attractive pets always loitering close. The Vaskians seemed to remain together like a clan, their rowdy temperament and the way they tore into their bread and meat giving off the impression that they had come straight out of one of the hanging tapestries. Laurent had heard enough stories from Auguste to be familiar with their ways. Their close proximity and feline eyes were made less worrisome to him by Vannes having her own seat at their table.

It was the Akielons that Laurent couldn’t take his yes off of, sticking out like a blank canvas in a gallery. Their colorless clothing and ambiance seemed to draw the eye in more than the bursts of decoration around the room, but they seemed entirely unaware of it. They spoke amongst themselves, a rumble of laughter occasionally spilling from their direction, their bared arms braced on the table, on the backs of their chairs. Laurent’s eyes wandered, taking in each line of their uncovered legs, even their feet revealed in sandals. The question of where one might hide a weapon puzzled Laurent, and it frustrated him that he couldn’t yet put those pieces together. 

When he lifted his gaze, Damianos was watching him in turn. He lifted a goblet to his lips, raising it slightly before taking a sip.

“That’s disgusting.” 

Laurent turned his head, finding Nicaise’s round blue eyes on his. He looked behind him to see his mother watching with a strained look, her fingers gripping the back of an abandoned chair. He lifted a hand, looking back to him.

“You’re going to give your mother a stroke.”

Nicaise’s hands were on the table. He had a droplet of sauce on his chin. “I told her you don’t mind me coming and going.”

“Don’t I?” 

“The King likes me.”

Auguste’s reception to Nicaise was more intrigued skepticism than anything. He favored Nicaise because he knew what he meant to Laurent. 

Laurent placed his spoon back into the bowl of soup, leaning back in his chair. He waited.

“I saw you looking at him,” Nicaise said. “It was so obvious.”

“Who?”

“You know who,” Nicaise said. He had yet to take a seat at the table, which was a shock in itself. Perhaps he _did_ have some concept of deference in front of strangers. “The brute king.”

“Maybe I’m trying to be obvious,” Laurent suggested.

Nicaise stared at him, arms crossing after a beat. “He is Akielon.”

“Perceptive.” 

Laurent watched as a muscle in Nicaise’ jaw hardened. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Nicaise,” Auguste said, finding the time to break away from his conversation with one of the councilmen to lean in their direction. Laurent wondered if the alignment with whatever sordid thing Nicaise was likely leading up to was coincidental. “How are you?”

Nicaise had the good graces to deflect, just a little. He always seemed younger in Auguste’s presence. “Your Majesty,” he responded.

Auguste smiled. “I believe your mother is beckoning you over.”

Auguste turned to him once Nicaise had gone, placing an elbow on the tablecloth. “So.”

Laurent pushed away from his plate. “Excuse me.”

The balcony’s size was long in its width, spanning far with a reclining bench and enclosed in a balustrade, curving in gaps and clean engravings. Laurent could smell the fresh scents of grass and lavender, the stone cool through his shirtsleeves as he rested his forearms, in the scene below him. The gardens were a sight at night, courtiers strolling through flame lit mazes as their conversations mingled in the breeze.

It was months of practice and experience, handfuls of incidents where Laurent had stood hidden and relied on his senses that told him that he was no longer alone. Perhaps it was the scent of another body, the way the quality in the air changed when you were joined by someone else, but whatever it was had Laurent turning his neck, causing him to look into Damianos’ torch lit eyes. 

“Prince Laurent.”

“Exalted,” Laurent said. It wasn’t quite unpredictable that he was here, but the suddenness of it still threatened a reaction out of Laurent. 

“Do you mind if I join you for some air?”

“I think it’s large enough for the both of us,” Laurent said. He let his gaze travel. “Just about.”

He laughed at that, fitting himself against Laurent and bracing his arms in a similar pose. He had the kind of smile that showed on his whole face, like he was incapable of feeling an emotion without displaying it in his eyes. Laurent looked forward.

“Is it too much for you, inside?” 

“It’s different than our banquets in Akielos,” Damianos said, in a tone like he was amending. “But I find that I rather like it.”

“This isn’t a banquet,” Laurent told him. “There were only six courses.”

That seemed to amuse Damianos further. He craned his neck to take in the ballroom through the glass, around the hanging petunia blooms. Laurent followed suit, and saw him looking at the blurred image of two women sharing a goblet of wine, the rim smeared in red. Akielons, Laurent knew, did not have a custom of same sex pairings. Laurent thought of his brother, and then thought wisely not to bring it up. 

“Have you been to Vere before?” Laurent asked. He saw no reason to waste the opportunity for useful conversation.

“I’ve only been as far as Delpha,” Damianos said. “But I’ve wanted to for some time now.”

Something in the pit of Laurent’s stomach tightened. He asked, evenly, “What made you come now?”

“It is not a simple thing to be a new king, as I’m sure your brother knows,” he said. The mention of Auguste sharpened Laurent’s focus further, like reins being tugged on. “But he had kindly sent an invitation, and the timing was convenient.” 

“Convenient.”

Damianos nodded. “My brother is expecting a child,” he said. “He will not be able to travel after, and he wanted to see the capital as well.”

Laurent thought of the bottle of _Hakesh_ that was still sitting on his desk, waiting to be taste tested and inspected. He decided to file this information away similarly. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you,” Damianos said. And then, with another look into the hall, “Your brother is unwed.”

Laurent looked up at him, not having expected such a forward comment. No wife meant a lack of an heir, something Laurent had considered himself, but he could never imagine pestering Auguste to marry someone out of obligation, despite Auguste’s willingness. Laurent also knew that he was in some form of a private, long distanced courtship with a Kemptian princess, though that wasn’t exactly public knowledge. 

“No,” Laurent agreed.

Damianos seemed to have seen something on his face because he said, rather quickly, “I meant no offense, Your Highness. I’m unmarried myself.”

“Oh,” Laurent tilted his head aside. “Were you propositioning yourself?”

He lifted a brow. “In general?”

Laurent hadn’t expected for the words to cause him to falter. “For my brother,” he said.

“Ah.” He was grinning. “No.”

It was Laurent who turned away first. He directed his stare to a group of men in the hedges, listening to someone tell a lively story. He thought it was a bit illogical that he was on a balcony and felt the need for air.

A servant joined them then, just as Damianos had taken up his previous position at Laurent’s side by the edge. They both turned, Laurent walking forward before he had even been regarded.

“Your Highness.” He bowed. “The King has inquired about your whereabouts.” 

“I’ve taken up too much of your time,” Damianos said. He came forward as well, the servant taking the dismissal.

“My time is mine to give.” Laurent’s fingers were on the curved handle of glass. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he said, and left him with that as he turned his back, making his way towards his seat. Swathes of fabric swirled around him as he made his way through the rows of table, dancers weaving their way around the guests to the melodic strumming coming from the dais. The day felt increasingly long, and it was thoughts of his rooms, the privacy that his chambers provided that revolved in his mind as he took back his spot by Auguste.

***

In truth, Laurent had been wanting to meet with the bastard prince of Akielos since he’d heard of their imminent arrival. He knew very little about the man passed his name, his lack of claim to the throne and because of Damianos, his impending child, also to be illegitimate if the lack of mention of an upcoming wedding was any indication. He had been unsure of how to best go about orchestrating such a run in, but it appeared that all that was needed was to be at the right place at the right time.

He had been dawdling in the hall, having just left a meeting with one of the statesman whose hands were now full of different lists and orders that Laurent had supplied him with. He stood now, alone, opposite an oil painting that had always caught his eye, always holding his attention for a few moments of mindless observation. Crimson red, swirled throughout the embroidered fabric of dripping blood and gold tipped pomegranates, ripe enough to touch. He heard the sound of steps as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

Laurent turned, slightly, his position beside a pillar allowing him to see before he was seen. Kastor walked with a guard flanking each of his sides, though Laurent’s delay in noticing them dissuaded him from knowing which direction they were coming from, which parts of the palace may have been scoured. They spoke amongst each other in hushed tones, Kastor not looking at either in any of his responses, allowing Laurent to catch the moment he saw him as well. The moment he hesitated.

Laurent watched as he inclined his head, just enough to murmur something to one of the men. They touched their belt, nodded, and shortly after he and Kastor were the only ones facing each other.

“Prince Laurent,” he said, unhurried. His pronouncement of the consonant in Laurent’s name was the harshest attempt Laurent had heard since the arrival of all their guests. 

“Prince Kastor,” he replied. Laurent hadn’t seen him since the night before, at his brother’s side at their raucous table. He was less talkative than Damianos had been, though that only gave Laurent the impression that each thing he said was measured. He hadn’t seemed to struggle in catching the attention of others when he wanted to, or sustaining it. “Are you finding your way? These halls can be a bit tricky.”

“I’ve managed,” Kastor said. He brought the tips of his fingers to a portion of the canvas where the colors blurred, the touch alone transgressive in its act, and then smiled to himself through a small shake of the head.

Laurent watched as he pulled away. “Are brushstrokes amusing?”

“Even your art is overly complicated.”

“Do you have a problem with intricacy?” Laurent asked. “Or does it simply clash with your Akielon sensibilities.”

Kastor’s brow lifted a fraction. Laurent felt willful, like he could hear Auguste’s ill repressed sigh when Laurent’s tenacity got the best of him.

After a few beats had passed, “Have you been to Akielos?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Laurent said.

“It’s different,” he replied. “Less suffocating.” 

He didn’t seem nearly as affronted as his words would suggest, like he was stating a simple matter of fact, rather an emotion. Laurent considered his lazy sprawl against the column.

“It’s a shame you’re not enjoying yourself,” Laurent said, fitting his own body a good stance away with his spine straight against the wall. “Your brother seems to be.”

An arrow shot in the dark, one that didn’t quite seem to hit. The mention of his brother didn’t appear to evoke much more of an emotion out of him than anything else did, the same level expression throughout. All Kastor did was roll his neck so his head was leaned back differently. “Damen is not a complex man.”

“On the contrary,” Laurent noted, glancing back. “Perhaps he just has more sophisticated tastes than you do.”

A transient flicker, like a sheer curtain fluttering behind his eyes. He straightened his shoulders. “All of my own tastes have been sated,” Kastor said. “Your Highness.”

“That’s right,” Laurent said. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

That, above all, seemed to pull something out of him. His mouth curved, Laurent was unsure if it was from amusement or contempt. “Ah, yes,” he gave a nod. “I’m sure the idea of a bastard being born fills you with congratulatory whims.”

If the concept of a foreign prince producing a bastard gave Laurent any thoughts, they were merely strategic. The hint of self-deprecation might have been amplified in Laurent’s own speculative mind, but that didn’t stop it form registering. He looked across the tiled floor at Kastor, the feet that separated them, and attempted to place himself in his shoes. It was a tactic he tended to fall back on.

Logistically, Laurent knew that illegitimately bred highborn could not be trusted. History had proven that. Personally however, they did not bother him. Laurent tried to think of what it might have been like, to spend years practicing how to balance the weight of the crown, only to have it removed from your unsuspecting hands and placed on the head of an infant. For Laurent, there was no greater place for a crown to end up on than on Auguste’s head, but not everyone’s reigning sibling was quite like his own brother. 

“Your family is not my business,” Laurent said, in lieu of everything else.

“No one in my family?” he asked.

Laurent raised his chin slightly. Kastor wasn’t expecting a response, so Laurent didn’t give him one. He pushed away, and watched as Kastor did the same.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said, turning. “Exalted.”

***

Laurent lifted another dagger off the shelf, spinning it between his fingers. The metal was cold, the edge sharp as he ran the edge of his finger along the blade, shifting his feet. The mark on the wall was small, red, his vision narrowing onto it as he swung his arm forward, letting it fly.

Laurent was reaching for another dagger before the previous had even hit its mark, a perfect parallel to the handle sticking out on its left in a row of silver. He remembered the time he had missed, _just_ missed, the minor slip enough to cost him an entire night of efforts and chases. Even when he had found his mark again, weeks later in an entirely different condition, he still remembered the drop in his stomach when he had realized his aim was flawed.

_Thwack._

Laurent looked at the pile, slowly diminishing. Four more left, four more chances to miss his mark.

The grate of steel was rough against wood as he dragged one towards him, pressing the hilt into his palm. Too much could happen in the span of a second, in the fleeting moments you let your focus waver. He reared his hand back, shoulders straight.

_Thwack._

***

The mornings were Laurent’s favorite times to visit the gardens. They were always the emptiest then; the afternoons were for mingling, the nights often utilized for starlit trysts. In those early hours of dawn, Laurent was able to revel in the warm colors that streaked the sky, in the faint trickle of water and the chirp of birds that landed at his feet. The scent of rose was fresh around him, the blooms of white reminding him of his mother.

It had been a slow morning, but a functional one. The council liked to portray themselves as one mind, a single functioning unit, though it only took a few years into Laurent’s adolescence and a handful of calculated conversations for him to learn how they all needed to be maneuvered, and to what they each responded. Herode was receptive to loyalty, Jeurre practicality. It was part of why Auguste typically insisted on his presence at meetings. 

Laurent’s gaze moved to the next passage, letting his lungs fill with air as he felt it in his body, exhaling slowly. He traced the line of a new paragraph with the tip of his finger, lips moving with each word as the images played out in his mind, animated and alive. He could hear the accents trill in his ears, could practically smell the acrid curls of smoke and fire as his nail skimmed the next line, the words absorbing into his pulse point. It was a flick of his wrist, a fleeting jerk of his eyes as he turned the page that had him realizing that the sound of footsteps was a physical presence, rather an echo form the world he had been whisked away to.

Laurent paused. His ankle stopped shaking, his raised foot coming down to rest on the grass as he placed his index finger on the inside folds of the book’s spine. The garden was a large place; vast enough in size and intricate as a labyrinth so that two people could enter together and end up getting separated, though apparently not enough to keep Laurent and Damianos apart. 

Something gave Laurent the impression that Damianos was not someone who was often watched by others without his knowledge, his not inconsiderable bulk and resounding presence enclosing him in barriers like a fortress. Laurent felt the impulse need to look while the walls were still down.

He dressed the same as he had the previous day. Nothing about his rep cape or pale cotton was impressionable enough to distinguish one outfit from the next, dark hair tousled like it had been mussed by spill of pillows, or the caress of a hand. His head was tipped back just enough that he could take in each individual stone and flag lining the high arches of the palace, just as grand on the outside as it was on the inside. A large portion of Laurent’s mind filed aside the way he observed the parameters of his and Auguste’s home. Another portion, small like a citation, noted that the unshaved line of his jaw was the harshest part of his features. 

Laurent didn’t flinch when their eyes met. This was his time, and he had been there first. If Damianos wanted to make a move, then he would.

It was disconcerting, the unbothered ease with which he walked through the trees and towards Laurent like these were his gardens. He was watching him with a glint in his eyes like they had planned something, like he thought Laurent would be waiting for him. 

When they were inches apart, Laurent re-crossed his legs. “Exalted.”

“Damianos,” he said.

“Damianos,” Laurent repeated, having practiced the syllables enough that his accent wouldn’t show. Damianos had pronounced Laurent’s effortlessly, the name rolling off his tongue as smoothly as the rest of his Veretian, and it only made Laurent wonder how young he had been when he had begun to speak the language.

He gestured to his side. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

“I don’t like to be presumptuous,” Damianos said, which Laurent highly doubted, but he took the vacant seat nonetheless, turning just enough that they could look at each other. “You’re up early.”

“As are you.”

“I’ve always been more of an early riser.”

So had Laurent. “Not one to linger in bed?”

“Not alone,” Damianos said.

Laurent just looked at him. He thought, briefly, of a man walking into one of his own bear traps. 

“May I ask what you’re reading?” Damianos asked.

Wordlessly, Laurent shut the book with one hand, realizing a moment too late that his place had been lost. He handed it over, watching as Damianos touched the cover, blinking. “This is in Kemptian.”

“It is,” Laurent said. He read it a bit slower than he would have liked but there was only one way to learn. Him and Auguste occasionally spoke it amongst themselves, refusing to let their grasp on the already tricky language slip. He touched his knee, his sparing amount of Akielon feeling more prominent than ever.

Damianos returned the book to him without so much as flipping though the pages. Laurent set it down on his side, leaning on a palm. “Do you read?”

Damianos’ smile was smaller than Laurent was used to seeing, almost shy. “No,” he said. “Not often.”

“You don’t enjoy it?” Laurent asked. Collecting facts were as important as weapons. “Or simply don’t have the time?”

“I would find the time if I wished to, I suppose,” he said, which Laurent found to be honest. “I prefer to engage in sport more.”

“So does Auguste,” Laurent said, only to catch himself before frowning. He didn’t like to throw Auguste’s name around so flippantly with strangers. 

Damianos didn’t seem to notice. He nodded, motioning to the side with his head. “I went a round with him and some of his guard before his meetings,” he said. “He’s very good.”

Laurent wished he were there to whiteness it, though he rarely participated in public practice. He wondered how many minutes had allowed to pass before getting Damianos on his back, if it was as many as he had Laurent when he was younger. 

“He is very benevolent,” Damianos continued, reclining in a similar fashion. “People rarely lose so gracefully.”

“What?” Laurent said.

Damianos hummed, like Laurent said something that required an agreement. “Kastor is older than us both and he still gripes when I best him.” 

Laurent looked forward. It was unlike Auguste to fake a loss. “Does he.”

If he nodded again, Laurent was not looking to see it. “Do you spar, Your Highness?”

Laurent placed his hands on his lap. “Yes,” he widened his eyes. “My guard says I’m improving.”

“I’m sure,” Damianos said kindly. A part of Laurent wanted to shove him. Another part wanted to challenge him.

His attention caught on a servant, entering the palace through one of the smaller passageways through the back. He was pushing a stack of crates on a wagon, another following shortly behind. Breakfast had been served to each of the newly occupied rooms an hour prior, though Laurent knew an additional one would be served in a smaller hall than the previous night, consisting more of fruits and cakes.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“I have,” Damianos said, followed by a pronounced pause. He seemed to be working something out in his head, looking at Laurent strangely as he spoke. “You have an alarming selection of cheeses here.”

It hadn’t been what Laurent was expecting, and it was random enough to startle a laugh out of him, the sound sudden enough that he turned away, pressing his lips together. He thought of the way Damianos’ nose scrunched up as he spoke, his mouth vibrating with the aftershocks of his surprise.

Damianos was looking at him differently when he faced him again. Laurent opted to fill the silence with more needless questions. “You don’t like options?”

“It -“ his response stalled, expression changing again. He shifted his weight to his other hand. “This feels like a trick question.”

“We’re only discussing dairy products,” Laurent replied, before realizing that he was smiling. 

“How about,” Damianos said, leaning forward. “You tell me something about yourself this time.”

There were things that Laurent needed to do. There were too many people at the breakfast for him to pass up dropping by, and he had yet to train, nor had he received his reports from Estienne yet. It seemed that there was never an early enough hour to rise. He grabbed his book off the stone, standing.

“I don’t need options,” Laurent said, bringing the book to his chest. “When I’ve found something I like.”

***

The rest of the day went on as Laurent had planned for it to, as did the following one, a regime that Laurent could have recited from the start. Rather settle him, the consistency of it all only set him further on edge, making him feel like he was scaling a wall, waiting for a brick to fall out from under him. He had prepared himself for surprises, for shifty interactions and underhanded comments, but all he received was a compellation of shared dinners, a handful of the same talks and the redundant feeling of an anticlimactic night.

Auguste, of course, thought Laurent was being paranoid. This was something that Laurent was fairly used to, and he learned to filter through it, though the concept was far easier said than done when it was without the additive of another puzzling consistency. If those passing days sparked the urge to look over his shoulder, Laurent knew exactly what he would find each time. 

“I know we’ve been over this,” Auguste was saying, eyes closed, his head tipped back against his chair in the scant moments of relaxed solitude that he allowed himself. “But you’re going to drive yourself mad with your overthinking.”

“I told you,” Laurent said, pacing. “There is no such thing as overthinking.”

“Your head will end up bursting,” Auguste went on. “And then who will pick apart and produce a pile of theories on every person I come into contact with?”

Laurent lifted his head, fitting him with a glare that went unnoticed before he continued to stride the narrow length of the balcony. He could hear voices from the yard, laughter, and it made him want to kick over a flowerpot. “I don’t -“ he turned. “ _understand._

“Why don’t you just take a step back?” Auguste asked, like anything was ever that simple. “Let things progress naturally.”

Laurent’s dropped his arms to his sides. “Because every time I do, he’s _right there.”_

Auguste’s eyes came open first, then his mouth in a slow grin. “I didn’t realize we were talking about a specific person.”

Laurent pursed his lips, saying nothing. He was sure Auguste would have plenty to say on his own.

Auguste’s legs came down from the table they had been crossed on, his hands going to his knees as he leaned forward. “Do I need to have a talk with the king of Akielos?”

“No,” Laurent said.

His look hadn’t changed. “I didn’t realize -“

“There’s nothing to realize,” Laurent said. “All I stated was that he’s a nuisance.”

“You didn’t quite say it like that.”

“He is -“ _everywhere_ Laurent wanted to say, more than just physically. They crossed paths in the corridors, in the banquet hall. He’d approached Laurent on the balcony again the previous night with even more buoyancy than the first time, and Laurent had found himself with a shoulder against the wall, nodding along to a story about Damianos and his friend the Kyros from their teenage years with more sincerity than intended. Laurent couldn’t even remember what it was about. The conversation felt tangled up in too many other things, none of which were any simpler to understand. 

“This isn’t the first time someone set their sights on you,” Auguste said. “I’ve lost count of how many men have tried to win your affection, and you’ve never done more than politely sidestep.” 

“I haven’t exactly sidestepped Torveld,” Laurent told him. “Do you think I have plans to finally let him fuck me this trip?”

Auguste waved a hand. “I have no doubts that you have your own plans for Torveld,” he said. “Just leave him in one piece, please. We are on good terms with Torgier.” 

“I thought you had ambitious plans to become Damianos’ newest friend,” Laurent said. “To make him the greatest ally Vere has ever seen. Have you given that up?”

“There’s no need to embellish,” Auguste rolled his eyes, unkingly in their privacy. “But I met with him and his brother this morning for breakfast, we discussed far more than just niceties.” Another sound came up from the training grounds, a clash of metal and steel that was followed by loud calls. “He had presented valid points.”

“You had breakfast with them?” Laurent clarified. “Alone?”

Auguste breathed out a sound, leaning his shoulders back again. “Don’t fret,” he said. “The most perilous thing he did was have a plate of cakes sent back with him.”

Instantaneously, Laurent could feel the powered sugar on his fingertips, the tang of syrup and pungent juices on his tongue like he was eating them again, the very same confections that he had put on his plate at dinner the previous night. He hadn’t called for the desserts that morning, but he had thought - some of the servants knew his proclivities -

He ignored the heat on his neck, the twist he felt in his gut as he looked out onto the long row of trees, inhaling. The sun would set soon, and with it came the cool evening. He thought of the seclusion his chambers, the crisp air that would flow in through the curtains when he would eventually get to bed, of whatever might be awaiting him when he closed his eyes.

***

The courtyard came alive that afternoon, swarmed with hurrying servants and wandering guests. All around there were different entertainments being held, different styles of dress making the rounds. The tables were laden in sweet teas and platters of cut vegetables, assortments of foods that were small enough to be held between the fingers, easily plated and enjoyed while one walked around. Liquor flowed freely despite midday hour.

Metal balls were spread out on the grass for a game of Petanque, A group of younger women standing on an opposing line from a man from Torveld’s retinue, and two women who must have been Vaskian. The shorter woman was holding the larger ball, her flinty gaze unwavering as she listened to the rules of the old Veretian game.

Laurent could see Torveld well from his vantage, seated at a smaller table with a man Laurent knew to be training for Auguste’s guard. Farther away, Laurent could see Lazar with a bow and arrow in hand, showing one of the Akielon soldiers the stance he would take before a target. Laurent knew from personal archery lessons with Lazar that he exceeded in the sport, and that there was nothing unintentional about the incorrect placement of his hands, the awkward alignment of his shoulders.

Auguste was standing close to the dais, though his back was to Laurent so that all he could see was the expressions of the Akielon Kyros and Kastor, waiting in silence as Auguste spoke. Their expressions were neutral enough, respectful, the Kyros giving a short reply that he couldn’t make out that had Kastor turning to look at him, rebutting. 

Laurent didn’t know what they were talking about. He couldn’t even being to guess, especially not without the Akielon who was equal in Auguste’s status present, but it still dazed him a little when he saw a slow grin spread on Kastor’s lips, leaning towards them and saying something that had the Kyros grinning similarly. Laurent knew most of Auguste’s reactions, he knew the way his shoulders shook when he laughed.

It left Laurent slightly perplexed, despite not knowing either man well enough to gage their sense of humor. He’d watched them socialize frequently over the course of the days, with the addition of his brief encounter with Kastor that had been more posturing than hilarity. He had observed them each to be stoic in their own ways, reserved unless they were in particular company. In retrospect however, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Laurent. He knew better than anyone that Auguste had a skill of drawing comfort out of people, of gartering comradery. Auguste was fire where he was ice, it was impossible to be in his company and not feel his warmth. 

Laurent felt that he had offered an adequate amount of his presence. Earlier he had joined Vannes and Lady Adelia for a round of croquet with the Vaskian princess and her lover, coming in last for two games before smiling politely, contributing to their conversation about the Vaskian mountain climate as he promptly won the next three rounds. As a prince, Laurent felt that he had done his fill for the day, and that he had reached that routine point where he slipped away, placing the niceties and appearances in Auguste’s hands.

There was a path from the courtyard that Laurent opted to take, cutting away from the rest of the group and winding through a path of low shrubs. The grass seemed more vibrant under the dark steps of his boots as he made his way to the stables.

Laurent felt immediately more at ease, the dim lighting like a blanket wrapping around him. A stable boy had come out from one of the stalls when he heard the sound of metal unlocking, brush in hand. Laurent waited for the moment when he stepped back, knowing from previous encounters that Laurent liked to do these menial tasks by himself.

“May I assist you with a horse?” he asked.

Laurent frowned, pausing from where he was stroking the mane. He looked up.

“I can manage.”

Initially, Laurent didn’t move. He focused on the thrumming beneath his hands, warm skin and a sleek coat, closing his own parted lips. He waited for the sound of approaching footsteps before he turned, leaning against the low door.

“For someone so large,” he said, “you’re rather silent.”

Damianos smiled. It was different from his brother’s. He set a hand on one of the wooden posts, arranging his body comfortably like they were still in the gardens surrounded by tart peaches and music, rather standing in the middle of a cramped stall, his sandaled feet deep in hay.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” he said, motioning towards one of the large windows vaguely. “I asked a boy I’d seen you converse with if he knew where I might find the Prince.” At whatever look crossed Laurent’s face, he raised a hand to the level of his abdomen. “A child, young. His eye color is similar to yours.”

Nicaise. “He told you I was here?”

Damianos hesitated. “He mentioned horses.” 

Despite himself, Laurent felt his own features shift in amusement. There were a number of colorful responses Nicaise cold have invoked for the foreign Akielon King who surely, he wanted to shock. 

Damianos’ eyes rose from Laurent’s smile. “Do you often leave your celebrations early?”

“Do you often follow people around?”

“I was invited on a walk around the grounds with a woman from Vask,” he said, which was not much of an explanation. The last Laurent had seen of him, he had been deep in conversation with a noble from Belloy, speaking over a jug of spirits and an abandoned deck of cards. Laurent hadn’t seen him walk off with anyone else, the table simply being empty when he had next looked. He heard the hay crunch under his heal as he shifted. 

“Has she bored you already?” 

“My attention isn’t easily held,” Damen said.

Laurent looked back at him, the affinity in his tone and way he regarded Laurent more familiar than he would have liked, or felt comfortable with. He thought of eyes catching his through a large, crowded room.

“Is that so,” Laurent said.

A moment passed. Another, and then Damianos was pushing away from his reclined pose, coming to stand in Laurent’s space, bringing his fingers to the mare’s side. “Is she yours?”

Damianos brought a knuckle to the side of her neck, lightly brushing. He had the proportions suited for a stallion, Laurent could hardly conjure the image of him caressing one of them in earnest.

“Yes,” Laurent said. And then, without thinking, “Auguste broke her in with me.”

Damianos pulled his hand back. “Do you ride with him often?”

Auguste didn’t have much time for that anymore. Neither did Laurent, technically, but he would sooner lose sleep than the opportunity to clear his head and feel the wind on his cheeks, at least once every few days. “Not as frequently as when he taught me how.”

Damianos looked around the stables, taking each stall in like they had just arrived. The stable boy had left their sight, more quietly discreet than Laurent would have accredited him. Laurent turned his body, facing him fully.

“The celebrations outside seemed to just be reaching its climax,” he said. “You don’t enjoy games?”

“On the contrary,” Laurent leaned in, just so. “I love games.”

A clamor came from outside. A roar of laughter. 

“I’ve noticed you step away from these events before,” Damianos said. “Have you always been so covert?”

The question stalled Laurent. Damianos, he knew, was a second son like him, but he was also a King. 

“With how superfluous this court is,” he said . “It is not so difficult to go unseen.”

“I see you,” Damianos said.

Laurent almost stepped back. He didn’t understand him, his tactics. Laurent knew you didn’t win a game by playing your entire hand at once, but Damianos was treating every interaction they had like his only interest was exposing everything he had to offer. He could feel the impression of his words, hot and flush on his cheeks.

“So I’ve noticed,” Laurent said, when oxygen no longer felt thick in his throat. He didn’t bother adding anything else, there seemed to be little that deterred him.

Case in point, Damianos glanced towards the exist before facing him again. He placed his hand on his horse’s saddle, just above Laurent’s. “I was told that the grounds outside the gates are good for riding,” he said, and Laurent could feel it again, the incongruity. The pounding in his chest. “Would you care to race?”

***

Laurent looked up from the scroll he had been handed, tapping his finger down on a single mark twice. “And these are your usual routes?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Charls said. He was seated in a chair adjacent to Laurent, unable to go a few minutes of conversation without shifting in his spot, looking at different parts of the expansive room. “I alternate courses yearly, this should remain consistent until the end of summer.”

Laurent dragged a finger down a path running through a smaller village in Allier, just near the border to Patras. The route spread out before him touched on all the main regions of the kingdoms, a steady progression that took four carriages of bolts through each province that could be reached without a ship. Laurent nodded to himself, slowly, moving his finger again.

A knock sounded on the door, a servant entering shortly after with a silver platter of replenished sugared cookies, a ceramic teapot steaming through the spout. Laurent watched as Charls eyed it all appreciatively, smiling profusely as their dirty dishes were replaced. Dishes clinked as they were reloaded onto the platter. 

“This is too much, Your Highness,” he said. It had taken some time for him to feel comfortable enough to remove the cloak covering his shoulder, longer for him to begin eating alone with Laurent.

Laurent set his quill down, reaching for a platter of sliced peaches that he had seen Charls eyeing. He spooned a few onto his own plate, setting it down close to Charls’ cup as he reached for his fork. “I’m only happy you were able to take a detour from your business to join the week’s festivities,” he said. “And that you will allow me to join you for a few trips after.”

His agreeing nod was vigorous. “I am honored that you would find our company adequate,” he said. “And that you wish to learn more about trade through interaction! It is humbling.”

Laurent smiled, setting the papers aside. “I’ve always been curious about it.”

“That is, of course,” Charls leaned in, speaking conspicuously low in the otherwise empty room. “It may be more prudent that the men don’t know they are in the presence of royalty…”

Laurent took a bite of peach. The glazed honey sweet on his tongue. “Do not fret,” he said, wiping at his mouth. “I can be very discreet.”

***

Laurent spent much of that night at his desk, the oils burning low as the flames of the lantern caused shadows to dance along his papers, strewn out before him as if arranging them all like pieces of a puzzle would help him see how they fit together. Rest came in stretched out moments of his face in his hands, lines and columns blurring together before he brought his knuckles to his eyes, ice rattling in his goblet as the cool water washed down his throat.

When the rising sun began to coat his documents in streaks of light, it was nothing but a reminder that it was a night wasted.

***

As soon as Laurent had been old enough to get around the palace on his own, he had become obsessed with the secret passageways in the walls.

It had been a mischievous hobby as a boy, and a useful tactic as a man. It brought him places quicker, took him to spots he had no business being in, and gave him this sense of having an upper hand should some conflict arrive, a joker in a hand of cards. 

He had skulked around in his youth, Auguste occasionally indulging him and following Laurent through all the strange discoveries that he had managed to make: The cabinet in the kitchen that took them to the throne room. The grill in the guardroom that took them underground and brought them out into the great hall. The shelf in the library that, when moved aside, opened to a panel that led you to the training arena. 

Laurent hadn’t intended to be there, crouched down on the patterned floor with his head tilted forward, ears straining. He had gone there on his own merit, looking to enjoy some quiet time with one of the newest selections that had been delivered that afternoon from Marches. He couldn’t have guessed when he entered that he would hear voices, coming from the wall and reverberating against the vents, making Laurent feel like the ground was thrumming beneath his boots. Curiosity had had him shifting the shelf aside, not enough to crawl through but enough to see a Patran soldier and one of the Vaskian ladies’, standing close enough to whisper despite being the only ones there. Or at the very least, thinking they were the only ones there.

It was an incongruous pairing. Laurent had seen her in the courtyard before, her bright red hair easily recognizable, though the man’s closely cropped beard and simple livery was similar enough to the rest of Torveld’s men that Laurent couldn’t tell him apart. Still, Laurent knelt there on one knee with a hand on the wall, trying to conjure up any single reason as to why the two of them would be together. 

That they might be fucking had crossed his mind, but they had been alone for over five minutes and their stances were no less amorous than they had been when he had found them. They were close enough to hear but were speaking too low to be intelligible, and the way they were facing each other was compromising Laurent’s ability to read their moving lips. 

It was exceedingly frustrating. Laurent felt immobilized from being so close but still so helpless, like there was a glass wall separating him from something just within reach. As it was he had to remain entirely silent, not wanting to risk the chance of moving the shelf aside more and chancing the possibility of them turning and seeing him, seeing the exposed panel. If he could possibly angle his head differently -

“Your Highness?”

Laurent felt like he had doused in ice water. His heart jammed in his throat from the sound of the voice. Instinct had him grabbing the nearest book in sight, lifting himself and turning in the quickest way that could appear natural while still pivoting his body, blocking the slot in the wall. 

Damianos stood in front of him, an unplaceable expression on his face as he looked at him, seeming to be waiting for something. Laurent looked down to the floor and then raised the book in front of him, motioning to it with his free hand. _I dropped it,_ his expression said, mutely. _I’m fucked,_ ” his mind told him, indisputably. 

Damianos was still watching at him, his brown eyes glazing over him. Laurent was used to Damianos watching him, but never with the prospect of being found out just mere feet away. He couldn’t jest or deflect, or say anything to redirect Damianos’ attention like he normally might. He needed to stay silent, but Damianos was looking at him probingly, and he could do nothing but look back.

He was going to speak. Laurent could see it in the way his head tilted, eyelashes fanning as he blinked. Laurent knew the set of his lips, the way his jaw worked before he spoke to him. He was going to speak, any second now, and Laurent’s ribcage was going to tear open with anticipation. 

Laurent knew when he was out of options. He knew how to accept defeat, but he also knew how to create new options. He had been walking on a tightrope for days, and the time had come to jump.

The sound of the book hitting the carpet was dull, much less impactful than the throbbing in Laurent’s ears or the way Damianos’ back hit the bookshelf, his shoulder’s seizing up under Laurent’s hands. The surprise on his face from being shoved backward only increased when Laurent pinned their bodies together, but Laurent didn’t give him any more time for questions before he was pressing their mouths together.

Everything seemed to stop. The adrenaline rushing through Laurent’s veins had slowed, reversed, reformed into something that made him feel like he was moments from drifting away. He was distantly aware of footsteps; hushed tones growing even farther under the clacking heels of boots, though thoughts of missed opportunity were pushed aside by the feelings of a large hand cradling his cheek.

Laurent was trembling. It caused him to fist his hands tighter into the chiton, one hand curling against fabric and the other grappling against warm skin. Damianos’ lips were tight against his, parting, and it was the inane thought of being devoured whole that had Laurent pressing his hands against his chest, pulling away before he did something even stupider.

He felt winded, like he had climbed through a tall window or dodged a series of blades, soaring through the air and straight for his throat. Damianos was still holding his face, and the expression in his eyes was so open that Laurent had to fight the urge to look away.

The library was silent. Everything around them felt a world away, like they were surrounded by an impenetrable wall that would be shattered if Laurent breathed too hard. Damianos was a rock against him, sturdy, a grounding surface where Laurent always felt like he was tittering on the edge of a cliff. 

“I,” Laurent didn’t know how to finish his sentence, but Damianos didn’t seem to expect an excuse, or want one. He was stopped from taking a step away by the hand on his waist.

“Laurent,” he said. His thumb brushed Laurent’s bottom lip.

Laurent frowned. “I never permitted you to call me by my name,” he said, pointedly, before pulling him back down by the neck.

He had already slipped up once that day, Laurent thought as Damianos’ arms engulfed him, supporting his weight as Laurent pressed up on his toes to get closer. Another mistake would not be detrimental.

***

No blunders were absolute, so long as they could turn advantageous. While certain actions could not be reversed, they could still be spun to lean in your favor, to produce a different outcome. Usually.

That was what Laurent told himself, on his back, lips slightly parted as he tried to regulate his breathing. 

Damianos was at his side, the sprawl of his body taking up a considerable amount of room on the bed with his outstretched legs, his arm raised above his head. Laurent could hear his breathing as well, louder than his own. 

It was just sex. Uncomplicated, as frivolous as if it had been anonymous, the need for release as straightforward as the times Laurent took himself in hand or reached between his legs with any of the glass or wooden selections he kept in his bedside table. The fact that he had someone else to do it for him now was coincidental, meaningless. 

That was what it had been like when he’d pushed Damianos down, gripping the bulging muscles of his arms as he used him for his own pleasure, his understanding of Damianos’ muddled, Akielon exclamations of how Laurent felt being scarce. It was what it had been like when Laurent finished, shuddering, not being spared any recovery time before Damianos was rolling him onto his back and pushing his legs apart, sinking back into him with a single thrust. He’d slid his palms to Laurent’s hips and kept them there, fucking into him long and hard before finding his own release.

That was what it had been like, after, Damianos hardly giving a moment of pause before he was tilting Laurent’s face to his, kissing him slower than he had moved when he had been inside him.

It was illogical for Laurent to still be there, like he was trying to give Damianos some false hope about how he wanted nothing more than to linger with him, naked and replete. The trailing of the tips of his fingers against Laurent’s thigh, the way Laurent was not shying away form the touch was only going to give him further ideas. Perhaps the same fanciful notions that had Damianos peeling his clothes off slowly, pressing his mouth to each span of skin that was revealed as Laurent tugged his laces free. 

“Laurent,” Damianos said, on his side now. He had spoken like he’d intended to go on, but all he did was smooth his palm up Laurent’s hip.

Laurent pressed the hand that was out of sight into the bedding, fingers curling like a firm grip would repress any tremor. An abrupt leave would look bad, he reminded himself. It had been a close call earlier. Too close. The last thing he needed was for Damianos to be suspicious of him; it would only make sense for him to dally a bit longer in the warmth of the tangled sheets. 

“You know,” Laurent said, turning as well. “I really never gave you permission to use my given name.”

It was Damianos’ tilted, unhurried grin that turned Laurent’s insides to knots. “You didn’t seem to mind it a few minutes ago.”

Laurent heard the breath that escaped him, falling onto his back again. “You’re pompous.” 

“I’m just a man who knows what he wants,” Damianos said. His elbow was propped up on the mattress, his fingers pushing into his hair, still tangled from Laurent’s own grasp. “But you are exquisite.” 

He needed to stop. There was still so much Laurent didn’t know - their conversations had hardly been all that informative, and he knew with each passing second of dazed, comfortable leisure that he was only wasting time. 

Laurent also knew that many people’s inhibitions were often lowest after sex. He removed his gaze from the engraved paneling of the wooded beams surrounding the bed, looking back at him.

“Why were you in the library?” he asked. Damianos had told him that he didn’t care for literature. 

He only shrugged, before brushing a knuckle against Laurent’s cheekbone. “You were reading,” he said. “That morning in the garden.”

It was like telling a sad person not to cry, the attempt of willing his cheeks not to color. Laurent ignored it, refocused his attention to more sensible things. He eyed his discarded clothing that lined the floor, a trail of boots and pants and undershirt, his jacket hanging half off a couch by the wall. He mirrored Damianos’ position and raked his fingers through the tangles in his own hair, resting a cheek on his palm. “What do you think of Arles?” he tried. “I gather you’ve been around enough to form an opinion.”

“I believe you’ve already asked me something similar.”

“And maybe now you’ll give me an honest answer.”

He felt a foot nudge at his ankle, familiar and playful. “I _was_ being honest,” Damianos said. “It’s very different from Ios, but different isn’t always bad.”

Laurent tried to see the palace through a stranger’s eyes, the way the intrigues and complexities might look to an outsider. He wondered if he’d yet stumbled upon anything the way Laurent often had when he had been young and unknowing, if he’d seen a flash of exposed skin in the shadows of the corridors or if he’d heard the distant sound of moans amidst the buzz of fireflies and the budding scent of lilacs. He thought of the way Damianos had eventually pulled away from Laurent in the library, looking around as if he expected someone to be lurking, watching them. His arms braced against the bookshelf had been like pillars, shielding Laurent.

“Tell me of Ios,” Laurent said.

He watched as Damen’s expression unfolded in a new way, like shudders being pulled apart to an open sky. The unmistakable joy for his country was nearly jarring. Laurent nestled into the cool slide of the silk sheets beneath him, waiting.

“It’s beautiful,” Damianos said. “Lively and vibrant, everywhere you look a wide stretch of blue.” He rearranged his legs, shifting under the thin blanket. “The palace sits at the highest point of the cliffs, and on a clear day you can see across the Gulf of Altros to Isthima.” 

Different from Arles indeed. His description of the city made the air seem lighter somehow, like they had both been taken to this place surrounded by weightless, colorful splendor, rather a tangled web of thrones and crowns. Laurent had never seen the ocean.

“I know you haven’t been to the capital,” Damianos said. “But have you ever seen Akielos?”

“I joined Auguste and my father on a trip to Delfeur,” he replied. “When I was a boy.”

The sun was beginning to set outside. The room was not yet dark enough to require candles or a hearth, though it was dim enough to cast his features in shadowed flickers.

“I’ve been told,” Damianos said, slowly. “That the starburst still hangs in some homes.”

“I know that,” Laurent said.

The carefree appearance had left him, lips pressing together as he nodded his head deliberately. “I’m not -“ His eyebrows pinched. “I wish to be a King in my own right. I don’t have much interest in fighting battles waged centuries before my ruling.” 

Laurent hesitated in answering. He could feel the way his own brows were pulling together, Damianos’ eyes unmoving from his. “We are Veretian.” _Your enemy._ He didn’t add that, nor did he add that ages of prejudice did not go away because of one round of fucking. 

“I know that,” Damianos said. “But I also know the manner of the King that I have been meeting with this week, as do I know the man who is always at his side.”

Laurent looked away. Damianos didn’t know him. He was cunning, and duplicitous. He wasn’t trusting, and -

Damianos’ hand was on his. Laurent watched the way their fingers interlaced, sliding together before lifting his eyes to Damianos’.

“I’m happy,” Damianos said. “That I came to Vere.”

Laurent closed his eyes.

***

“Your Highness,” Lazar said.

It was the second time he said it, just as it was the second time he handed Laurent the sword that he’d managed to knock out of Laurent’s grip. Laurent wanted to jam the sword into the wall. 

He could feel the line of sweat that was running down his back. His shirt clung to his damp skin, not unlike the way it had clung to him that morning when he’d thrown it on so hastily that most of the laces ended up looped through the wrong eyelet.

It had been his fault. Stupidly, irresponsibly his fault. He’d been reckless the previous night. He had done what needed to be done in order to maintain secrecy and keep Damianos in his corner, but he’d mindlessly allowed himself to get swept up in the mission. He’d lingered too long, had allowed too many lazy remarks to settle against him like a warm cascade of water. One thing led to another, one or two helpless kisses that he knew were one too many, and what he had to show for it was the sun soaked, alarmed realization that he’d woken up in Damianos’ bed. 

Getting up was its own task, untangling himself from Damianos’ hold without jostling him a challenge in itself. Laurent dressed as hurriedly as possible, conscious to be quiet so as not to wake him and find out what his own name sounded like on Damianos’ lips in the morning. 

The jarring start to Laurent’s day threw him off entirely. He rarely frequented the rooms in this wing of the palace and was therefore unaware of any alternative exits, and so he weathered the carefully averted gaze of Damianos’ guards as he made his way through the halls and tried to recall what routes Auguste was least likely to take. Walking to his rooms with his head lowered and his boots unlaced was slightly less than dignified. 

He bathed first. He wanted to wash off any distractions from the previous night, and that added slot into his routine had shifted his schedule and brought him to his arena later than usual, Lazar watching him approach with poorly concealed interest. Laurent ignored that as well, just as he ignored each protest of his limbs.

Or, he tried to. By the third time Lazar bested him Laurent knew that his options were to admit his own defeat or to alternatively ram the sword into Lazar’s throat. His obvious curiosity and temptation to comment on Laurent’s abysmal efforts were not helping matters, and Laurent sheathed his own sword before he acted rashly a second time. 

“We’re finished.”

“So soon?” Lazar asked. His blade was tipped to the floor, his weight resting on the hilt.

“Yes.” Laurent was already walking to the opposite end of the room, weighing what parts of himself he could train alone that wouldn’t require anyone else to see his blunders. “Our guests should be up and around, go and make yourself useful.” 

Lazar sported the same grin that he had worn when another Akielon had taught him a form that he had taught Laurent himself months ago. Laurent stared mutely until Lazar took the hint, bowing his head once before taking his leave. 

Laurent turned back to a shelf of different sized blades, reminding himself that sweeping everything off would not actually serve him a purpose. He was annoyed with himself, and annoyed with Damianos for always being in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time. He had no idea how much he was screwing with Laurent’s plans, and Laurent wanted to push him against a wall for it.

He trained twice as long that day, and didn’t allow himself to leave until he doubled the weights he usually lifted and managed to hit the targeted bullseye in succession without one miss. He was sweating by the time he finished, and sore in the only way he should be allowing himself to be.

He would have his breakfast sent to his room while he bathed. Something light that he could eat while he looked over the stack of letters that would be waiting on his desk, things that required his attention before he took his afternoon appointments. He made a right down the divide in the corridor, only to stop himself before barreling into someone’s chest.

“Your Highness,” Damianos said. His hands were on Laurent’s hips despite Laurent being perfectly upright. 

Laurent lifted his eyes from the grip on his sides, only realizing his mistake when they reached Damianos’ mouth. His lips were a little curved, his smile pleasant and polite. Laurent tampered down the impulse to stomp away like a petulant child.

“Is that what you’re back to calling me?” Laurent asked. He could hear how his breath was still labored. 

“What else would you have me call you?” Damianos asked. He’d told Laurent to call him Damen the night before, with Laurent’s fingers tight in his hair and his head thrown back against the pillows.

“Busy,” Laurent said. He looked over Damianos’ shoulder. 

Damianos seemed in no rush to step aside or allow Laurent to get back to his work. He seemed moments away from leaning against the wall and crossing his legs at his ankles. 

“You snuck out on me,” Damianos said.

Laurent’s face was flushed form the exertion. He was jittery with the adrenaline that always accompanied him after a workout, and he just wanted the privacy of the baths where he could submerge himself in cool water and think.

“Yes, well,” Laurent said. “Not all of us have the leisure of sleeping in.”

His lashes were dark veils. “I had no desire to sleep.” 

Laurent stared at him. Damianos stared back. 

“Exalted.” 

Laurent let out a breath, closing his mouth before the words could slip past his lips. He caught the minor twist of Damian’s features before be pulled back his shoulders, turning to the intruding voice. “Nikandros.” 

Laurent turned as well. Damianos’ voice was warm and inviting, a perfect contradiction to the way he felt about being interrupted, and Laurent could see the acknowledgment of that etched into each disapproving line of Nikandros’ face. 

Laurent’s interactions with the Kyros were minimal, mainly limited to his own distant observations. His only experiences of coming face to face with him after the initial greeting had been a night he had come to the balcony he and Damianos had been occupying to fetch him, and an afternoon in which Laurent had been walking through the garden and stumbled across Nikandros and Kastor speaking, neither looking too pleased to be interrupted or to be in each other’s presence to begin with. Kastor had walked off first, then Nikandros in a different direction, and Laurent had begun to suspect that the man lived in a constant state of tension. 

He seemed to remember himself then, because he turned to Laurent and said, “Your Highness.” 

“Kyros,” Laurent said, wondering how he was allowing himself to waste so much of his time with everyone just voicing names and honorifics. “I hope all is well.”

“Exemplary,” Nikandros replied. His voice was firm. “I was simply hoping to speak with Damianos.”

_Please_ , Laurent wanted to say. _Take him_. But Damianos spoke up before he could. “Is this pressing?” he asked. “We were in the middle of something.”

“Were we,” Laurent raised a brow. Nikandros frowned.

He received the same warm, heavy lidded gaze. “Yes.”

“It was regarding,” Nikandros interjected, “what we discussed this week.”

Damianos didn’t seem to appreciate the reference. His attention finally removed from Laurent and settled on Nikandros, who was looking back at Damianos the way Auguste sometimes did when he disapproved of his little brother’s actions. It was not something Laurent would expect to see directed to a King from someone of a lower rank, and his curiosity was piqued despite himself. He observed the two of them anew.

“Nikandros –“

“If you’ll excuse me,” Laurent said, at least retaining enough sense to know when enough was enough. “I have things to attend to.”

“Will I see you?” Damianos asked, and Laurent genuinely began to question whether Akielons ever kept a single thought to themselves. 

“We have dinners here,” Laurent brushed past them. “Fasting was not on my agenda.”

Laurent heard the low mutters of a back and forth quarrel as he walked down the hall, pushing the voices form his mind and focusing on the echoing sounds of his boots against the floor. He focused on pragmatic things. The baths would likely be empty at this hour, and he would have one of the servants know to have his horse waiting for him in the south courtyard when he finished. He entered the wide corridor that was lined with outstretched panels, an attendant coming forward to greet him.

“Your Highness,” he said, young and clean-shaven. “Shall I draw a bath?”

“Is anyone else inside?” 

“The King entered not long ago.”

Laurent wanted to tip his head back and push the heels of his hands into his eyes. He exhaled, nodding.

“I can manage,” he moved around him. “Thank you.”

The baths were thick with steam, the air hot and damp at the nape of his neck. Laurent’s already cloying clothing felt tight and uncomfortable, and his fingers were already working the laces as the doors closed behind him. 

His brother was a singular figure in the largest bath, illuminated by the aperture built in the ceiling and shaped like a hexagon. His arms were spread at his sides, his nails skimming the surface. His eyes came open.

“Brother,” he said, his head lifting from its recline on the stone. Laurent’s shirt came off as he walked across the room, dropping it on a bench to be dealt with by someone else. “How nice.”

“You rarely bathe in the mornings,” Laurent replied, his hands going to his trousers after divesting of his boots. He was standing in the secluded square of marble where the sun shone the least bright, a tall pitcher of water waiting for him on a sill. He turned.

“I had a long night,” Auguste said. “I felt like pampering myself.”

“I wasn’t aware that getting clean was a form of indulgence.”

“My long night was the indulgence,” Auguste said.

Laurent glanced over his shoulder as he scrubbed at his arms, Auguste’s grin wide and lazy. Something tense in Laurent’s stomach unclenched as he let the water run down his back and splash at his feet, his own grin coming on slowly. It felt good to see his brother at such ease. 

When Laurent finished washing he pushed his hair back from his forehead, slicking it back and wringing the ends out. Auguste returned his head to its previous loll as Laurent ascended the shallow steps, mirroring his brother’s sprawl and sinking low in the silky water. It smelled of roses.

They didn’t speak at first, which was nice. Laurent inhaled the floral scent and let his thoughts lift with it, the sound of chirping birds filtering in through the latticed windows. It was not even midday yet and he had the whole afternoon ahead of him. He had promised a Lord from Chasteigne an hour of his time to hear over a proposal that he couldn’t recall and would need to review before meeting him. He could have him brought to one of the unoccupied rooms above the garden.

“Have you gotten used to it?” Auguste pulled him out of his head. 

“’It’?”

“The guests,” he clarified. “The foreign faces.”

“Have you?”

“No,” Auguste amended. “But it’s my job to be vigilant.” 

If Laurent opened his eyes, his view would be of the ostentatiously carved ceiling. “As it is my job to sit around and wait for the best thinly veiled offer of marriage.”

He heard the lap of water hitting the sides and spilling down to the floor as Auguste’s legs moved against his. He could feel his stare. “You know that’s not what I think.”

“You and the rest of the court,” Laurent murmured.

“Since when did court gossip bother you?”

It didn’t. 

The water sloshed again. “Did someone say something to you?”

Laurent wasn’t sure why he was starting something. He raised his head enough to gaze at his brother, showing him that nothing was amiss. “Rest easy,” he said. His voice was calm. “My high esteem is secure.”

Auguste still looked needled. He watched Laurent for a few more seconds before leaning back on his elbows, making an indignant sound in his throat when he received nothing more provoking than a blank stare. 

“Tell me,” Auguste said, in a different tone. It was one Laurent recognized but didn’t hear often. “Does it make you think about it?”

Laurent said nothing. The tips of his fingers were dangling in the water, everything beneath the surface muddled form the frothy oils.

“Everyone being at the palace,” Auguste continued. “All the different people. Always –“

Laurent knew what he meant. “Yes,” he said. He was always thinking of it. He didn’t say that.

“My men are –“

“I know,” Laurent said. So was he.

This time, Auguste was the one who didn’t initially respond. He nodded his head when he saw whatever look had passed over Laurent’s face, and then nodded again, and then it was Laurent who saw the new look that passed over his brother’s face. 

“Does Damen know?”

Laurent frowned. He’d wanted to ask why he possibly would, but was stalled by the ease of Damianos’ small name on his brother’s tongue. “You’re on familiar terms with him.”

“That would make us both,” Auguste said, and then something new made him grin. “Oh, don’t fret, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I wasn’t –“ Laurent was still frowning, he could feel it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Auguste’s knuckles splashed the top of the water like he was knocking something away. “Don’t you?” he said. “I noticed your absence from dinner.”

“And so?”

“I noticed another absence as well.” 

Laurent forced his features to slacken. He pushed a few wet strands of hair behind his ear. “Have you considered focusing on things that matter?”

“I am,” Auguste said. He’d rubbed at his chin as lines of water were beading down his neck, dripping back into the bath. “Their Kyros seemed to notice as well.”

“I didn’t realize he was also under your observations.”

“He’s interesting,” Auguste said. “I took a page out of your book.”

“Then fuck him,” Laurent said offhandedly, thinking of Nikandros’ sour disposition. He could probably use it. 

Laurent caught his mistake a moment too late, the gradual lift of Auguste’s features just as insufferable as it was telling. He brought a hand to the front of his face and rubbed at the skin, Auguste’s satisfied pleasure radiating off him. He wanted to sink under the water and not come out until everyone was gone.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Auguste said, his voice light and playful. “You knew you would give in eventually.”

“Did I,” Laurent dropped a hand in the bathwater.

“Laurent.” Auguste spoke his name like he’d said something foolish. “He’s looked nowhere else since he arrived.”

“And?” Laurent said. “That’s nothing new.”

“No,” Auguste agreed. “What’s new is you looking back.”

Laurent looked at his hands, murky shapes that he could barely make out. “It was a mistake.” 

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Why? Because he couldn’t yet be confident about Damianos’ motives. Because it had been so good. Because he didn’t know if he could trust himself around him.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Laurent said.

Auguste sighed, but there was also humor there, and a lightheartedness that made Laurent glance up. He had lifted himself out the bath with his hands flat at his sides, the disturbed water lapping between them.

“I told you,” Auguste said, reaching for one of the soft towels and running it behind his back. “You think too much.”

***

Laurent tried to convey himself as routinely as possible over he course of the next two days. He went about his regular tasks, and continued to adjust his roster to acclimate to all of the new additions.

He accompanied Auguste and Torveld on a tour of the palace’s wine cellar, stone lined and open with a glass wall facing north that allowed light to pour in and illuminate the bottles in crystal and color. Auguste pulled out a bottle that Torveld had gifted them with on his previous trip to Arles, and the three of them shared a glass while discussing the hunt in Chastillon. Laurent didn’t typically have much of a taste for wine, but he also knew the importance of trying new things. 

He met with Enguerran and they discussed the different training that he had overseen, save for the Vaskian women who tended to act best on horseback. The Patrans and the Akielons had both made themselves comfortable in the training yard and the public arena, and Laurent had informed his Captain to keep a close eye and to retain anything that he had not seen practiced within his own men. He had then lifted a sword and had him relay everything over. 

He had Damianos a second time. It had been less impulsive than the first but more hurried, the two of them barely making it through the threshold to Damianos’ chambers before Laurent lowered himself to the cold marble for no other reason than he wanted to. It had lasted less than Laurent had anticipated and was significantly more enjoyable, so he had him a third time for good measure. 

Later when Laurent breathlessly rolled off of him, Damianos grabbed at his wrist like he’d expected Laurent to slip out again. Laurent had looked at the point of contact as he tried to stop his chest from moving, lifting his eye.

“Stay,” Damen said. So he did.

It was how they found themselves still in bed, some time later with the sheets half thrown across their hips. Something in Laurent kept telling him to flee, soft and insistent like the buzzing of an insect when trying to fall asleep, and Laurent persistently ignored it. He found different thing to focus on, hollow things that somehow managed to make his chest feel full. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Damen asked. He was on his side, a lock of Laurent’s hair between his fingers. 

“You’re aware that this is my kingdom,” Laurent said.

Damen smiled at him, the kind that showed the dimple in his left cheek. Laurent thought he could feel his heart move.

They spoke. It was different than the conversations that Laurent tended to have, always filled with pragmatism and sidestepping. Damen told him of a time when he was younger where he had escaped his guards with the help of his brother so they could tryst with two girls from the marketplace. They had carried themselves under the guise of blacksmiths, which had been successful until the revelation that their father was of the same profession, and it only took a few narrow eyed questions to learn that they knew nothing of the craft. 

“Did you consider getting more informed on the matter before using it as your facade?” Laurent asked. 

Dryly, “I didn’t intend to spend the evening discussing ironwork.” 

Laurent was on his stomach now, his arms crossed beneath him. The heat of the hearth felt warm on his bare skin. “Was that your first time?”

Damen rubbed a hand against his shoulder. Then he shrugged. “One of their brother’s found us. He chased us away.”

Laurent couldn’t quite imagine Damen being run out by another man, but it didn’t stop him from laughing at the visual of it. It seemed to surprise Damen, who turned his head on the pillow and laughed silently, an indignant breath. “That amuses you?”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “I didn’t think you scared so easily.”

“Well,” Damen’s face was still turned to him. “I’m just pleased to hear you think of me at all.”

Damen, Laurent was learning, was frustratingly skilled at turning a conversation around to his advantage. He was nearly as good at it as Laurent was. “Should I be concerned about you getting spooked again?”

“You’re the one who keeps running off,” Damen said.

The fire crackled. Damen’s eyes were amber in the warmth of it, his body relaxed and spread out for Laurent’s perusal. He looked relaxed, and content, and like he wanted nothing more than to lie there with Laurent and talk until the only source of light in the room came from the slow rise of the sun. Laurent thought if he could bottle up the ecstasy and pleasure that came from a night of scaling walls and accomplishing a hard task and transform it into something syrupy and sweet that made him feel just as good, it would be this.

“Do I look like I’m running?” He asked.

And it was reflected back to him, if a twinned feeling could be displayed in someone’s gaze. Damen spread out his arm like curling into the embrace of it was as simple as that, and so Laurent decided that maybe it could be. He moved, slowly, aware of their bared skin and the way it felt to be pressed together, and he focused on the sound of Damen’s heartbeat against his ear to distract him as he allowed himself to be held.

“Speak to me,” Damen said. His voice was a mouthful of molten wine, and if Laurent closed his eyes he could fall asleep just like that.

“About what?”

“Whatever you like,” Damen said. His fingers smoothed through Laurent’s hair, and Laurent’s eyes began to drift. “I want to listen to your voice.”

***

The day had begun as most of Laurent’s mornings did.

Albeit, there were a few differences to the initial hour. But apart from the languorous start, everything else had moved along right to his schedule. The interactions, the conversations, the reports. Even Nicaise, showing up at his doors and demanding entrance to the Prince’s chambers was not entirely uncommon.

“Let him in,” Laurent said, from his seat at his desk. Nicaise was a little thing, but he was scrappy enough that he could make his presence known from across the room behind two broad shouldered guards. 

“Nicaise,” Laurent said, three stacked parchments still in his hand. He watched Nicaise’ large eyes rake around the room, unabashedly, inclining his head towards one of the archways with a squint. The brazenness of it was almost admirable. “Can I help you with something?” 

Nicaise said nothing. He shifted on his feet, turning. 

Laurent motioned to the platter of buttery pastries on the table. There were a few left filled with tart berries, the same ones that he new Nicaise favored. “Help yourself.”

“I’m not here to eat.”

“Then why are you here?”

Another glance aside. And then, “is he here?”

“Who?”

Nicaise frowned. He strode forward, stopping in front of Laurent’s desk and peering down his nose at him. Laurent waited, patiently, watching Nicaise’s lips contort as he said, “ _him._ Your Akielon brute.”

Laurent regarded the visible parts of the room in the same way Nicaise had. “He’s quite large, isn’t he?” he asked. “I think you’d notice if he was.”

The lines between Nicaise’s brows etched deeper. “This isn’t a joke.”

Laurent set his papers down, one atop the other. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his weight on his forearms. “Then what is it?” he lifted a hand. “You’ve yet to explain your hasty arrival. Were you bored?”

Nicaise movements were quick. Laurent hadn’t even managed to blink before Nicaise reached into the fold of his clothing, coming closer, and then something was slapped into his hand before he’d had the chance to pull it away.

Laurent looked down at it. A single paper, folded over twice, seal broken. He could see the scrawl of ink through the thin parchment. He lifted his head. “You brought me mail?”

Nicaise’s nose scrunched up. He made an irate sound, dropping down into one of the opposing chairs. “ _open_ it.”

Laurent exhaled slowly. He had the time for this, technically. But Nicaise didn’t know that, and he always insisted on dragging things out for the sake of dramatics. He kept his eyes on Nicaise as he unfolded the paper before placing it down on the desk and smoothing it out.

It wasn’t quite a missive. The wording was minimal, and there was no greeting or signoff, a handful of lines only. It wasn’t in Veretian and the words didn’t come to him in a single glance, it took a few seconds of concentration for him to place the language. 

“You read Akielon?” Laurent asked, knowing the answer.

Nicaise’s cheeks colored. “I found it in the courtyard,” he said, which was not an answer. “Where they train. It was under a helm, discarded on a bench and obviously forgotten. It –“

“Nicaise,” Laurent said, calmly. “What is this?”

The color in Nicaise’s cheeks darkened, changed in nature. His arms crossed against his chest, and the jut of his chin reminded Laurent of the older times he would stalk after Auguste in the stables and insist that he could keep up with his friends.

“It’s correspondence!” Nicaise said. “It’s theirs! Something you wouldn’t have gotten if it weren’t for me.”

Laurent’s shoulders lowered, nodding his head. It wasn’t the reaction that Nicaise wanted, strongly apparent from the way his chair skidded back from how he pushed himself up.

“You’re prideful,” Nicaise said. “And stubborn. You need everything done your own way.”

“And what is it exactly that I’m dong?” Laurent asked. He knew Nicaise didn’t have an actual answer to that. He also knew what it was like to want to feel included, but there were more pressing things than catering to such whims. 

The lack of surety was spelled out on Nicaise’s face, on his youthful features that were not yet honed in enough to hide what he felt. He pushed the chair back into its position, solidifying that fact when he said, starkly, “failing.”

Laurent closed his eyes as the door slammed shut, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temple. It wasn’t the first time that they’d done this dance, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nicaise was persistent, and more capable than most people his age. He didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t his capabilities that spurred Laurent to keep him at arms length – it was that he didn’t need to be involved. 

Laurent rubbed his face wearily as he looked back at the parchment. The palace was crawling with Akielons, a piece of correspondence left behind was hardly scandalous, nor was it enough to raise alarm. He cared little about some nameless person’s private musings, especially one about something as nondescript as – Laurent looked it over again – a sanglier hunt. 

And then he paused. 

Laurent read the line over another time. Another. While the hunt was the same, the Akielon’s called it boar, and Laurent knew since he was old enough to heft a spear that the name of the hunt varied depending on the region it took place in, and the way the prey was being referred to. He also knew that the Akielons had never taken part in a Veretian hunt.

Slowly, very slowly, Laurent folded the paper back into its original unopened state. He felt each crease and gritted texture under his fingers as he looked again at the signet, seeing only the circle of red until it struck in his mind. He remembered the last time he’d seen the symbol, and suddenly his vision was wavering with the color.

The clear glass of water wobbled against the surface of the table, threatening to spill over and soak the spread of documents as Laurent pushed himself up. He could practically feel his own thoughts rushing, each one being yanked away and thrown into a whirlpool where all he knew was a swirl of chaos in his head and a growing pit in his stomach.

Laurent knew chaos intimately. The last time he’d felt it on such a grand scale was one year ago, at the last hunt they’d held. Laurent remembered the day all too well. The collision of disarray as riders charged back in a panic. The stream of banners, and the calls that rang out above it all. The jumbled, unified cries of _the king, the king, the king has been injured._

Laurent was hunched over the table as he squeezed the note between his fingers, waiting for the wax of the seal to crack and trickle down like droplets of blood. He’d been in a similar position that morning, going to fetch the pitcher of water before leaving when he’d been crowded from behind, arms winding around his stomach as Damen kissed his nape. 

Laurent watched a quill roll away from him as his fist came down, all the while trying to focus on steadying his breathes. It wasn’t – something. Not quite. But it could be, and that was what he needed to hold on to. This was what he had been waiting for, really. Some sign, some indication that their motives might be impure and that their trip might not be an olive branch, but a mockery. 

Laurent knew about hidden agendas, about a secret up one’s sleeve. He knew of it better than most. 

The surface of his desk was cold against his forehead. Laurent wanted to throw his arms out, to shove everything to the floor in a clatter so his guard would run in and intrude on his privacy, to give Laurent the opportunity to let _this_ out. This steady growing thing, gradual like realization, as ugly and real as Laurent’s worst nightmare.

He needed – not Auguste. He couldn’t take this to Auguste. He would only downplay Laurent’s fears; sweep the paper aside and tell him to stop worrying so much. Not his mother, dead and gone before a boy was ready to loose a parent. Not his father, killed before a King was ready for the end of his reign. Certainly not –

Damen. Charming, likable Damen, who swept Laurent off his feet and made Laurent forget about everything that was important. Not Damen, who just that morning had – 

Laurent’s stomach rolled, threatening to heave. He pushed himself up, away, forced his feet to work until he had made it to the balcony, and then farther. Laurent stood at the edge and pressed his body forward, letting his head hang and his lungs fill with cold air. He needed to breathe. He needed to focus. 

His fingers stopped shaking, curling slow against the banister. He needed to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about capri in these Trying Times [ tumblr](http://laurent-ofvere.tumblr.com) [ twitter](https://twitter.com/damensthighs)


End file.
